


Gone for the Holidays

by orphan_account



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Concussions, Holiday Season, Hurt/Kinda Comfort, Little bit of angst, M/M, Mention of Smoke's family, Post-Missions, Seems one sided?, after christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Smoke's finally home from a mission, and even though he tries to hide it, Mute knows he's not doing great.And of course, Mute can't help but care.
Relationships: Mark "Mute" Chandar/James "Smoke" Porter
Kudos: 34





	Gone for the Holidays

Mute has to admit, the bloke on the platform looks good. Despite the bruise that has bloomed along his jaw and the bandage wrapped around his head, messing up his usually slicked back hair, he’s handsome. He looks good on a bad day, and great on a good day, but right now he’s a sight for the gods - in Mute’s eyes, of course. The man’s finally back, gas mask is in his right hand, a duffel bag slung over the opposite shoulder, and a brilliant smile faced towards an accompanying Lesion beside him. He’s squinting though, the lighting not helping post concussion. 

The rotors have finally slowed to a stop.

Mute’s missed him.

Six weeks hadn’t sounded too bad when he was first told. He himself have been out for longer, and so has the other, but _hell_ , had these weeks been brutal _._ He didn’t know it would have hurt. While the other had been in Budapest, Mute had been stuck in gloomy, old England, waiting and waiting and waiting. In his return though, he looks, glorious, delectable, untouchable. Every second he stands on that platform, the spotlights aimed towards the chopper in the middle of the night, he’s radiant. And Mute is giddy; all he wants to do is pull him off that platform, hug him, and just listen to the expected stupidity to come. 

It’s when Smoke is talking to Doc, grinning and not actually listening to the Frenchman’s medical advice, do they make eye contact. Mute smiles smugly, his arms crossed and noting how laughably distracted Smoke gets. It doesn’t take long for Doc to send him off with a long sigh upon his own notice. 

He tries to make himself seem cool: Smoke’s obviously controlling his walking speed, tries to pet his hair back despite the offending bandage, and has trouble trying to figure out where to put his hands. On his way over however, he ends up tripping over Pulse’s equipment and doing finger guns with a strained grin.

As Smoke opens his mouth, he’s stopped with a, “You look like shite.”

“Bloody smell like it too,” Smoke laughs and raises an arm. Exhaustion lines his voice, yet he still has the strength to be funny. “Wanna whiff?”

_______

“God, my head fucking _hurts._ ” They’re in Mute’s car, heading towards Smoke’s apartment, both very well knowing the latter wouldn’t be up to driving back home by themself. Fatigue has caught up with the man sitting in Mute’s passenger seat anyways, his head leaned back against the seat and audibly bothered. The time says it’s going on two, and while Mute’s missed only a few hours of sleep, Smoke has missed way more. “Butt of a damn shotgun. Now I know how Grace felt that one time.”

“You said your parents were staying with the kid?” Mute glances over, the light of the console low yet illuminating Smoke, the latter now resting his head on his hand, elbow propped up against the window. He took his bandage off sometime still at base, and even with little lighting, the dark blotch on his jaw is prominent.

“Yeah, and they'll probably stay for another week or so. She say anything to you while I was gone?”

“Said Happy Holidays. She missed you though, I know that.”

Smoke turns his head towards Mute, cheek still leaning on his fist. “Good, good. She’ll probably beat me as a present, but what could be better?” He chuckles. Smoke rubs his eyes with his hand, Mute knowing the headache is way worse than it seems. 

“Hey, even if you weren't back in time for Christmas, you're here now. Glad you’re back too. Another week and we probably would have gone mad from the quiet."

“Must have been desperate then,” Smoke remarks somewhat distractedly, but then reaches over and pats him on the arm. “Missed you too. Let me tell you though, Budapest fucking sucked.”

For the rest of the ride, Smoke drifts in and out of consciousness, his head lolling every once in awhile before sitting upright again, arms wrapped around his bag. Mute leaves him be, thinking this is maybe the first chance in a while that he’s gotten some actual rest. It's obvious though that he's not going to voice what's bothering him.

It doesn't take much to figure it out.

Roads and cars and buildings pass by for what seems like a while. Smoke's home is a ways away from base, and the quiet extends the length of the drive somehow. Six weeks - supposed to be seven originally, so thank god - felt like forever in itself. And while he's glad that Smoke’s back, still walking despite being the unlucky owner of a concussion during the holidays, there’s almost a greater sadness to his presence now that it's sunken in, now that he's back in England and not countries away. While there is gratefulness, there's also always a pain in coming back home, for most parties involved.

James usually looks good no matter what, but that doesn’t mean he feels the same. 

Mute could have been in bed right now, instead of having stayed up to be a one-man welcoming committee. He could have been in the warmth of his flat instead of driving someone else home when they could have just stayed a night on base. He could have been doing other things this entire time, but instead he isn't. Mute knew Smoke having left for a mission during the holidays wasn’t going to be a good thing for the older man. Nor was it going to be any good for Mute.

Mute was never a fan of the holidays anyway.

The car parks in front of Smoke’s apartment complex.

Smoke jolts awake, not in time to cover his eyes when the lights come on. He groans, leaning forward in the seat and resting his head on his duffel. Mute weakly suggests some Ibuprofen.

In the lift up to Smoke’s floor, Smoke leans against him, wobbly and tired. Once they’re on the floor, he lifts his duffel up closer and unzips it as they walk side by side, reaching inside and taking out a half assed-wrapped present, no doubt his best attempt. 

“Here,” Smoke mumbles tiredly once they reach his door, and hands it over. At this point Mute shares his headache. Keys jangle quietly and the front door’s lock clicks. “Night mate, and thanks for the drive.”

Before he closes the door to the apartment, Mute stops him. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

“A shower and a coma. Moreso the coma. I need sleep,” Smoke laughs bitterly, running his fingers through his messy hair. “Thanks though. Merry belated Christmas, Mark.”

Smoke pulls him in and hugs him, a telling grip on the back of Mute's jacket. For the sake of both of them, it seems to be more of a reassuring weight than anything. The smaller man heaves. Once he backs away, the last of him is a tired, somewhat uncomfortable smile and a click.

Standing alone in the hall, Mute unwraps the present. 

The ghost of a _Merry Christmas_ sits on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> When I come up with ideas or whatever for stories, I feel like I don't write them in correctly, so as per most things, this might have been confusing. Sorry if so.
> 
> Happy Holidays too :)


End file.
